A governor stands before a cheering crowd and declares, in effect, that a former presidential candidate cannot step into his state without first seeking his permission. “A new Sheriff is in town,” he thunders, warning that the visitor’s security cannot be guaranteed if he defies the edict. In a constitutional democracy, this should be satire. In Nigeria, it is a headline.
Edo State’s Governor Monday Okpebholo’s warning on July 18 to Peter Obi did more than spark a social media brawl; it illuminated, with painful clarity, the metastasising culture of gubernatorial absolutism in Nigeria. The statement was promptly condemned by lawyers, civil society actors and political figures who pointed, correctly, to the constitutional guarantee of freedom of movement. But the outrage also exposed a deeper malady: we are normalising the language, posture and instincts of emperors in a republic.
Section 41(1) of the 1999 Constitution (as amended) is unambiguous: “Every citizen of Nigeria is entitled to move freely throughout Nigeria and to reside in any part thereof…” There is no asterisk, no proviso that the travelling citizen must first pay homage at the gate of a governor’s lodge. Security concerns can justify operational coordination, not political gatekeeping. To invert this is to invert the very logic of citizenship.
If a governor genuinely believes a specific visit could trigger violence, the proper route is institutional: liaise with the police command, the DSS, and other security agencies to design an operational plan, or approach a court for narrowly tailored, time-bound restrictions supported by credible intelligence. What is neither constitutional nor democratic is a blanket pronouncement of “no entry without permission”—especially when couched in politically tinged innuendo about donations, motives and partisan rivalry.
Gatekeepers vs Stewards
Nigeria’s hyper-presidentialism is well known, but less examined is the rise of imperial governorship. From local finances to public gatherings, many governors act more like proprietors than stewards—treating security as a personal shield rather than a public good. In their view, the state is a gated estate, the governor its chief enforcer, and political opponents mere trespassers.
Governor Okpebholo’s statement fits this pattern perfectly. It positions the governor not as a constitutional officer who owes duty to all citizens, but as a territorial sovereign who can issue entry visas to fellow Nigerians. This is the logic of fiefdom, not federalism, of empire, not democracy.
Security is the last refuge of those who want to suspend rights without scrutiny. We have seen it used to outlaw peaceful protests, over-police civic spaces, and now, apparently, to regulate political presence across state lines. The framing is always the same: “I am only trying to prevent chaos”, as if the chaos of lawlessness doesn’t start precisely when officeholders treat the Constitution as optional.
To be clear: public safety is a constitutional obligation. But it is not carte blanche. The threshold for derogating from a fundamental right is necessarily high and must be justified by facts, not slander. Even then, the remedy must be proportionate, temporary, and overseen by the courts, not announced from a podium like a royal decree. Anything less is authoritarianism wearing a democratic cap.
Right of Entry and Exit
The speed and scale of the backlash to the Edo governor’s warning are encouraging. Prominent legal voices have described the statement as unconstitutional, civil society groups have demanded a retraction, and Peter Obi himself has publicly dismissed the threat, insisting he will continue to visit any part of Nigeria to support public causes. That pushback matters. Democracies do not defend themselves; citizens do.
Outrage alone is not reform. Institutions, including courts, legislatures, the NBA, and political parties, must act. The NBA should pursue strategic litigation to check gubernatorial overreach, while state assemblies must bar executive interference with citizens’ movement under the guise of “security.” Parties should also sanction threats that turn political rivalry into intimidation.
One of the grave dangers of the Nigerian political context is how quickly the extraordinary becomes normal. Today, it is a warning to a high-profile opposition figure. Tomorrow, it could be a circular to NGOs, journalists, student unions, or labour leaders: “Inform the Governor before you hold a town hall, protest, or even visit.” Incremental erosion is how democracies die, not with tanks at the gates, but with permission slips at the door.
Each time a state actor claims powers the Constitution does not grant, and we shrug, we shift the baseline of what is acceptable. Each time the rhetoric of “I will not guarantee your safety if you come” is repeated without legal consequence, we inch closer to a culture where rights are favours, and duties are discretionary. That culture is the clay from which impunity is moulded.
The Politics Behind the Posturing
Let us not pretend there is no politics here. Peter Obi’s continuing national resonance makes him an irresistible target for opponents keen to reframe him as a destabiliser, a hypocrite, or a nuisance. In polarised environments, security narratives are weaponised to de-legitimise political rivals. But a democracy that cannot tolerate the mobility, speech, and philanthropy of a former presidential candidate is a fragile one and a democracy unsure of itself.
Moreover, the invocation of a donation (N15 million to a nursing school) as a kind of political provocation tells its own story. When charitable support becomes politicised, it signals a deeper anxiety: that the politics of governance is losing its moral claim to social legitimacy, and thus must police, rather than persuade, those who wield influence outside government.
This is an ideal moment for the judiciary to restate, in emphatic terms, the boundaries of gubernatorial power vis à vis citizens’ movement. We need jurisprudence that says: not only is it unconstitutional to threaten a citizen’s movement without lawful order, but any state functionary who does so is in breach of their oath and subject to judicial rebuke and possible personal liability. Soft landings for constitutional hard crimes are part of why our public officials keep testing the limits.
Ironically, many of the same political actors who demand “true federalism” and devolution of powers are often the first to practice centralised, personalised control within their states. They want Abuja to step back while they step on necks. That paradox must be called out. True federalism distributes power not only between federal and state tiers, but also within states, across institutions and toward citizens. It diffuses power; it does not re-bundle it in the governor’s fist.
Citizens must send a strong message to leaders who are tempted to flex “new Sheriff” energy by resisting it. Public office holders must wear the office cloak like a loan from the people, not as a crown seized from them. If you believe someone’s presence threatens public peace, there are legal channels to address it. Use them. The rule of law is neither an inconvenience nor an ornament; it is the only thing standing between stewardship and tyranny.
Edo is only a microcosm. Across the federation, we see governors banning protests, sealing party secretariats, denying opposition access to public venues, or using state-owned media as personal megaphones. Each instance chips away at the idea of Nigeria as a shared civic space. If left unchecked, we risk returning to a pre democratic logic where power is territorial, identities are policed, and travel is a privilege of favour.
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